Chapter Two
Chapter 2
DECLAN
I’M BARELY AWARE OF THE jet engine’s hum throughout the cabin as I stare out the window at the blue sky. It truly looks endless, blue melting into blue in every direction.
These trips are the only moments I feel any kind of peace.
Up here in the sky, there’s a hollowness. A void. I’m far away from every annoyance going on below, away from anything familiar that brings familiar memories.
I can stare out at the blue abyss for hours and not think a goddamn thought.
April 10th doesn’t exist up here in the clouds.
Neither do any of my failures.
I’m simply empty, as empty as the universe will be. One day, when the last dying star fades out.
The hum of the engines pulls me back and I realize that Davis, the VP of my security company, NexaProtect, is no longer talking. I check my phone, making sure we’re still connected, then I rest it on my thigh.
“You were saying?” I ask, leaning back in my leather seat.
His sigh is loud through the speaker. “You’re not listening again, are you?”
“I only spaced out for a moment.”
“I thought those new sleeping pills were helping. Is it more insomnia?”
I turn my head to gaze out the window again, a dull ache behind my eyes. I’d rather not talk about myself—a topic I hate. “Is the demo ready for Halliwell and his team?” I ask, bringing the focus back to business.
“Yup. We’re going to highlight the security breach they had last year. We’ll simulate the vulnerability to show how our detection system would’ve stopped the hackers before…”
I close my eyes as Davis continues on, only half listening because my head is now pounding. This entire week has been nonstop flights to meet with clients or potential ones, and I’m finally flying home to San Francisco. Last night’s dinner with Mr. Halliwell, the pretentious CEO of a hotel group, was especially annoying. God, that guy was the worst. He kept trying to hit on the server instead of fucking focusing on our conversation. If a partnership with the asshole wasn’t so important for my company’s expansion goals, I wouldn’t even bother.
“Our tech team is working on the case studies for the pitch,” Davis is saying. “Marketing wants to…”
Dammit, why is it so hard to pay attention? I’m not trying to disrespect Davis—he’s a sharp, strategic man who does amazing things for my company—but I think I’ve been pushing myself too hard with all these expansions and partnerships.
Davis is right—I’m having insomnia again because the fucking pills stopped doing their job. I suppose I can’t really blame the medicine. Endless work is how I’ve designed my life; the constant dull aches and pains in my body are a deserved torment.
April 10th is only three weeks away.
Resting my head back on the seat, eyes still closed, the dark behind my eyelids is a welcome embrace. I think of the sky, endless, and how I want to dissolve into it…
“Declan? Hello?”
My eyes snap open and I inhale sharply. Fuck, did I nod off? I clear my throat. “Yeah? Sorry. You were talking about the simulation for the hack.”
I can sense Davis’ amused grin through the speaker. “I was. About five minutes ago. What are you doing? Deciding which woman you’ll take to bed tonight?”
I snort. “Not exactly. I nodded off.”
Davis knows about my sleeping problems and pretty much every other awful thing about my life, and when it’s clear I don’t want to discuss something, he tries a different approach: humor.
I don’t mind. He’s the only person I have any kind of friendship with—besides Sean—and Davis is good at getting me to laugh. It helps me survive nowadays, so I owe the man a lot.
“Ah,” he says, his tone light. “You’re napping now so you’ll have the stamina to entertain multiple women tonight. Got it.”
I laugh. “Fuck off.”
His warm chuckle carries through the phone speaker as I stifle a yawn. “Well,” he says, “we can discuss more of the pitch on Monday. Honestly, I can’t fathom Halliwell saying no to a partnership. They’re desperate and our track record is spotless.”
“True. But I never half-ass anything.”
“Oh, I’m very aware of that. The word ‘anal’ comes to mind.”
I smirk and shake my head. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Bye. Try not to spend the entire night entertaining yourself. Maybe actually sleep for once.”
I grunt, then rest my phone on the tray beside me. My next yawn is so prolonged that it brings moisture to my eyes.
I glance across the jet’s cabin to Sean, my bodyguard, as he’s reading a book. He’s been working with me for about five years, and I take him on every trip. The man is shorter than me, but he’s ex-military and trained in a lot of combat styles. Even though he’s not bulky, you can tell just by looking at him that he can cause a lot of damage. His lean muscles always look coiled to strike.
I’ve hired a lot of bodyguards over the years, and Sean is the only one I trust completely with my life. Still, it’s good to have a few around, so I usually hire at least one more to accompany Sean.
When I glance at him, his sixth sense kicks in and he immediately looks up, trying to gauge if I need something.
My eyes dart toward the bathroom near the back of the jet, then back to Sean.
He shrugs and says, “Jeremy’s still in there.” He drops his gaze back to his book. “Told him not to eat that Mexican food.”
He’s reading a self-help book about productivity habits, his black side-swept hair falling over his eyes. Honestly, I’m not sure how he sees because his hair is always in his face. I’m not sure why he doesn’t cut it—he’s half-Korean and people sometimes comment about his hair looking ‘K-pop.’
That comment is the number one way to piss him off.
“What’s your take on Jeremy?” I ask. He’s the new bodyguard I’ve been trying out.
Sean shrugs again, a quick and controlled motion, then he flips a page in his book. “He’s only been here a few months, so we’ll see. So far, he’s doing what he’s supposed to, following directions. He asks good questions. Don’t think he likes you, though.”
“Why?”
“Just the vibe I’m getting. He makes a lot of comments about ‘rich assholes ruining the country.’ Seems to have a chip on his shoulder.” He glances up. “You do happen to be rich and, well…”
“An asshole?”
“Hey, I didn’t say it.” He flashes a crooked smirk that tells me he’s joking.
With the exorbitant salary I’m paying him, he better be joking.
I roll my eyes back to the window. “Well, I don’t care if he likes me as long as he does his job.”
“Yeah, he’s doing his job and seems committed to good work.”
A few seconds later, Jeremy appears, still buckling the belt on his black slacks. He’s bulkier than Sean, but also a lot slower.
“Hey, boss,” he says, flashing his gapped teeth.
I look him over, like seeing him for the first time. So this guy doesn’t like me? He’s usually smiling and saying something goofy. I glance at Sean, as if for confirmation of Jeremy’s true feelings.
Sean nods and then goes back to reading.
I yawn again, deciding it’s a topic I’ll revisit later.
A nap would probably be a good idea, but I think I’d rather push through. I prefer to fill every waking hour of my life with either work or charity endeavors, entertaining a few women as I go. Sometimes, that entertainment is more about my date shopping to her heart’s content, but I don’t mind. If my dates are distracted by getting spoiled financially or in the bedroom, then they don’t pry into my life and we can remain casual.
My eyes are drooping again, so I open my laptop to skim through emails—anything to keep me awake until I’m at least back home in Presidio Heights. A chat message pops up on-screen. Then another. In my sleep-deprived haze, I forgot to mark myself as offline. Since I’ve been MIA all week, a few of the women I casually date are messaging.
Hi, Daddy, Vanessa sends. The other woman, Martina, opens with: Guess what I’m wearing tonight when I come over? The dress you said makes my ass “impeccable.”
I smirk. Impeccable? God, that makes me sound pretentious.
I can’t help responding to Martina first: Is that so?
Martina: Here’s a preview.
A second later, an image pops up of her caramel-colored ass in lacy white panties. The lace doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
Me: I think you forgot the dress.
She sends a laughing emoji.
Vanessa must not like that I’m taking a few minutes to respond to her because she bombards me with messages:
I’d love to come over if you want some company.
Can I cook you a nice dinner?
I’ve been missing you all week thinking of how you’ve been all alone in those hotel rooms doing all your important work. No one to cuddle with.
I click my tongue as I consider my response carefully. Vanessa has really been pushing for a relationship even though I’ve repeatedly told her I don’t do attachments. I’ll need to have a tough talk with her soon so we can go our separate ways.
I’m not a man any woman can have a future with.
Me: You know I don’t cuddle.
Vanessa: Just offering! So you want me on my knees taking that dick like a good girl? I want to choke tonight, Daddy.
I blink. That escalated quickly.
Me: Unfortunately, I’m busy this evening. Use my account to treat yourself. Let’s talk later.
She sends a sad emoji followed by a kissing face. Miss you, but thank you, Daddy.
I tell Martina the same thing, then set my status to offline.
I read a few emails, respond to one, then I close my laptop, deciding to just stare out the window at the horizon of blue again.
As Vanessa put it, I am always alone in hotel rooms, at home, in life. That’s how it should be. No woman will ever suffer again from being in my presence.
The most I’ll ever allow myself is a casual hookup, as long as the woman herself is entertained and happy. And I prefer to avoid any fantasies. Though lately, I’ve been plagued with images involving someone very specific I met near a koi pond.
It’s a torment I’m not enjoying.
Why in the hell do I keep replaying our entire interaction at the gala?
The moment I noticed her, she had stood out from the crowd in that gold vintage dress. It hugged her petite frame perfectly; one long slit up the side to reveal an enticing tan leg. She was a classic beauty with a grace that conjured images of Audrey Hepburn in my mind. But something about her was edgy. Her angled black bob, the steel in her shoulders…she wasn’t some obnoxious artist or an annoying socialite. She was a flash of reality among gala masks that only covered the ones people wore for a living.
Of course, I wasn’t going to let Neville Fucking Hanson linger around her. That man is a predator. But my mistake was lingering myself once I had chased him off, like flying too close to the sun and getting blinded. The way her natural, light pink lips formed around words, the watchfulness in her dark brown eyes. That phoenix tattoo on her inner wrist, the one she tried to hide with a chunky faux-pearl bracelet. Why a phoenix? Why was such a stunning woman acting so unsure of herself? I had craved to talk with her and learn everything.
A huge mistake; now I can’t shake her from my thoughts. Learning that she harbors an attraction for me certainly made it worse.
Yes, lingering was a very bad idea. I’m a possessive man when triggered, though also the worst kind—one who fails at protecting his possessions.
“I know you never loved me, so I saved you the trouble of ending things.”
The silence of the cabin envelops me. I clench my jaw, my fingers tightening on the armrest as my chest caves in.
I won’t go there. I won’t allow myself to remember that letter.
Instead, I focus on what’s around me—the soft brown leather beneath my hands, the gentle whir of the engines, the faint scent of my cologne. Slowly, gradually, I feel the memory recede. The tightness in my chest eases, my breathing evens out. I am here, in this moment. I am in control.
I’m high above everything, in the clouds, where I can escape.
With a heavy sigh, I run a hand through my chaotic hair. I need a cut and a shave. A punch to the face to give me some physical pain to focus on. I still box as a hobby for that very reason—physical pain is always a good distraction.
Glancing at my watch, I note the time. Thank God we’ll be landing soon. I need a shower, some brandy, a night of poring over details about that pitch in a few weeks…
My phone vibrates on the tray beside me, and I wonder if it’s Vanessa or Martina again. I pick it up for a quick check and find a text from an unknown number, but it has a San Francisco area code. It reads: Sorry I still have your jacket. Where can I deliver it?
My jacket? Did I leave something at the dry cleaners? What—
A sudden rush of adrenaline makes my fingers tingle as I stare at the screen. Could it be her? The woman from the gala?
I blink, trying to stay grounded in reality. As much as my pulse is trying to pick up, I’m also wary. If it is her and she remembered my number, why is she reaching out now, weeks later? If she’s trying to use the jacket as an excuse to talk about networking for her art program, I’d rather she lead with that. I’m happy to help, but I don’t like games, don’t like being caught off guard.
Well, it might not be her. Could be a wrong number and a coincidence.
Dammit, I should just respond and kill the suspense.
Me: Who is this?
Mystery Woman: We met at the gala a few weeks ago. I accidentally left with your jacket. I’m sorry.
It’s pathetic how much my heart rate spikes. Why the hell am I so affected by this woman? We met one time for only a matter of minutes.
I stare at the phone, running my tongue over my teeth. I should give a simple response of either telling her to keep the jacket—honestly, I don’t care—or give her an address if she’s adamant about returning it. No need to instigate anything.
Just like her, I’m not interested in getting tangled up in someone I can’t trust myself around. I prefer to keep things casual, and this strange attraction to her is…mind-numbing.
A simple response is the better choice.
Yet, another part of me, a part I thought I had locked away long ago, is feeling reckless.
Me: The gorgeous woman in the vintage dress. I remember. I didn’t catch your name … ?
Mystery Woman: Thank you for calling it vintage. I know it looked cheap.
Me: Not cheap. It’s a classic style. Feminine. Graceful.
Mystery Woman: Thrift store.
Me: Shows confidence.
Mystery Woman: No. Used up and should be thrown out.
I smirk, liking our banter. Why is she so insistent on waging war over this dress? I’m a competitive man.
Me: If it was such a cheap dress, why haven’t I been able to stop thinking about you in it? Thoughts I probably shouldn’t reveal.
That text may have been too bold, because the minutes tick by and she doesn’t respond. Well, I had to say it. Her refusal to listen to my opinion about the dress struck a chord—I’m not a liar. Also, she’s been in my mind so much that those words came out naturally.
Rather, they forced their way out, pushing past my barriers.
Despite the rumble of the jet engines and the sound of Sean flipping pages and Jeremy snickering at some video on his phone, the feeling of stillness settles on my shoulders.
The mystery woman doesn’t respond, so I set my phone down. Well, that’s that. I’m not a subtle man, so if my words were too straightforward for her, then it’s better we don’t continue.
I’m not trying to date her, anyway, so I shouldn’t have gotten flirty. I only wish she didn’t intrigue me so much. I wish she’d never told me about her art program. It’s clear that she’s determined, self-possessed, caring. Not just anyone has the compassion and drive to start a venture like that.
Her aspirations mixed with her exquisite beauty and edginess is a dangerous cocktail I really want to taste.
A stewardess appears to tell me we’re starting our descent, and I decide to force the raven-haired mystery woman from my thoughts. I slide my laptop into my satchel and then tidy up my area, even though it will be another hour before the jet lands. I grab a notepad to jot down some thoughts about the damn Halliwell pitch meeting. If we’re going to—
Buzz. Buzz.
I frown at my phone and then check the screen.
Mystery Woman: What kind of thoughts?
My abs tighten. Fuck, that’s a dangerous question.
My thumbs hover over the screen as words scroll through my head. The best course of action would be to tell her exactly what I’m thinking so I scare her off. Most women find me too straightforward and honest.
If I rub her the wrong way, then good. We won’t risk getting tangled in each other.
My thumbs quickly tap out the truth: Mostly fucking you in it.
I hit send.
I’m about to drop my phone and be done with this when the damn thing buzzes.
M.W.: Missed opportunity. I wasn’t wearing panties at the gala.
I stare at the message for a long time. Then I glance at my bodyguards, who aren’t paying attention. I quickly adjust myself as a slow smirk spreads across my face. Every neuron in my brain sparks in a way I haven’t felt in years.
Me: Too bad you didn’t tell me. I would’ve fucked you in the garden. You haven’t done anything dirty with my jacket, have you? Strange you kept it so long.
M.W.: I’ll make sure it’s dry cleaned before returning it.
My cock is now digging painfully against my zipper.
Me: Don’t. I’d rather smell you on it.
Jesus, what is this woman doing to me? It’s time for a different plan: fucking this spitfire out of my system. I just need one night, one chance to indulge.
I don’t deserve anything more.
Just one night…
Me: Care to meet me at Fairmont Heritage Place this evening? Show me what you’ve done to my jacket. Just know that I’m a man with particular tastes.
Blood pounds through my veins and groin as I wait for her response.
Mystery Woman goes silent.
Eventually, I set my phone down.
The jet lands, and the stewardess appears to see if I need anything before I disembark. With a shake of my head, I gather my belongings and exit the jet, Jeremy and Sean leading the way. Each footstep down the stairs is heavier than the last.
During the drive to my house, I keep thinking of her, each thought falling into a blank, endless void where once I felt the mystery woman’s presence.
When I reach my destination, I dump my luggage in my bedroom, then go for a run. Later, after a quick shower, I bury myself in emails and contract details about the upcoming pitch meeting.
Mystery Woman is still clinging to my thoughts, so I start sifting through my contacts, compiling a list for her. By the time midnight rolls around, I’m exhausted—physically and mentally. Her lack of response is a bitter taste on my tongue, and I regret being so blunt. I should’ve been professional and changed the topic to her wonderful art program. I decide to message her, to try to salvage what I can.
Me: I apologize for my earlier messages. I’ll keep things professional. Attached is a list of contacts to help with your art program. I gave each one a heads up so they know you may be reaching out. Truly, I admire your commitment to building something for troubled teens; it’s a great cause. Let me know if there are other ways I can help.
With that done, I swallow some sleeping pills and lay in the darkness of my bedroom. The bed’s too big for one person; these satin sheets are suffocating. Of course, when I close my eyes, I’m only flooded with images of the mystery woman. In the morning, I’ll replay her flirtatious texts in my mind, then feel guilty about jerking off to her in the shower.
But tonight, this moment, I’ll allow myself to indulge in fantasies without that gnawing shame.
The funny thing is, my fantasies don’t even involve fucking her. She’s merely haunting my bed, resting in the space another woman once filled so long ago.